


accountability

by ViolaTricolour



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Gen, One Shot, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 01:38:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17819375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolaTricolour/pseuds/ViolaTricolour
Summary: “she decides god is no good, but he must exist, / he must exist so she can hold him accountable.” — Ada Limón, from “The Echo Sounder"





	accountability

_Do you believe in the Maker?_

Bethany, voice so tiny she feared it would break, head bowed with hands – open, palms up – sitting in her lap. Victoria had wrapped her arms around those fragile shoulders and held her close, ran fingers through dark locks as her little sister sobbed into her shoulder.

She barely understood it at the time; all she knew was that her sister had inherited their father’s magic and that it _scared_ her, and it broke her heart. What else was she to do except offer clumsy attempts at comfort when, late at night, she began to crumble and the worries spilled out of every crack?

“I don’t believe in any Maker that doesn’t love you, just as you are,” Victoria whispered in her hair. “It’s going to be alright, Bethany. You’ve always loved the things Father could do; now you can do them, too.”

She holds her sister close until she peels away to return to bed, and right then and there she vows to protect her with her life.

_Do you believe in the Maker, child?_

“Yes, Sister, of course I do!” It is not the first time a member of the Chantry as pinned her with that damning frown of disappointment they’ve all perfected; she’s tempted to ask if it’s a requirement to join the Chantry, but she holds her tongue. The smile on Victoria’s face is downright cheeky, and she cannot quite hide the glimmer of amusement in those green eyes. As evidenced by the fact Carver gives her a very swift kick in the shin.

“Of course you do,” the Sister huffs, gaze flickering between her and Carver. He’s in just as much trouble as she is, and just as covered in mud from the friendly brawl they’d been pulled out of. Not between the two of them, of course; their opponents have long since scurried off like the cowards they are. “You’d do well to act more like it.”

Victoria rocks on her heels, wild grin never once fading. “Oh, but you see, Sister – the Maker’s never going to turn his gaze on me, anyway. So I don’t see that it matters what I do.”

The Sister’s frown, if possible, deepens.

“Perhaps I’ll have a talk with your mother…” she mutters darkly, before turning away from the pair of mud-covered Hawkes.

“Really?” Carver sighs once they’re on their own again, turning towards home. “Why do you always have to antagonize them?”

Victoria wraps an arm around Carver’s shoulders – not an easy feat; he’s quickly overtaking her in size, these days – and squeezes. “You, little brother, need to get a sense of humor. Let’s see if we can get cleaned up before Mother gets home; I won’t tell her about this incident if you don’t.” She winks; they both know they’ll keep their mouths shut, and it won’t matter a bit.

_He will be with the Maker soon._

That is all the Healer has to say to them before Leandra bids the children leave the room; Victoria opens her mouth to argue, but Bethany grabs her hand, and she relents.

Father’s condition has only worsened, and some part of her knew this was coming. And oh, how she wants to scream. How she wants to fight back because there must be _something_ that can be done to save him. Why will no one tell her what’s happened? Why must she watch her father disappear and not know the cause? Does everyone truly think she will be better off for it?

Even Carver looks frightened, the color drained from his face.

“That healer doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Victoria tries, doing everything she can to sound so much more confident than she feels. “He doesn’t know Father. It takes a lot more than _this_ to take him down.”

“We don’t even know what this is!” Bethany replies in a horrified whisper.

She wishes she could argue; she wishes she had some comfort to give her siblings. Both pairs of eyes are on her and she is just as lost as they. Isn’t the eldest supposed to protect their younger siblings? Is she not supposed to be strong for them?

But all she can hear is the healer telling them that their father will be with the Maker soon, and there is no comfort to be found in such a statement. She would much rather he stay here, with them.

And at the funeral, everyone has such wonderful things to say about Malcolm Hawke; none of them really knew who he was. Prayers and songs and sympathies will not change the fact that he is gone. All she can feel is bitterness, and anger.

“Why?” she asks the sky that night, soft and quiet and desperate. “Why?”

There is no answer. Not from the stars, and most certainly not from the Maker.

_Will you receive the Maker’s blessing?_

She hadn’t wanted to join the King’s Army, but Carver had had his mind set on it. The darkspawn, if not stopped, would march upon Lothering and destroy their home. Their father was gone and it had been a choice of protecting her brother on the front lines, or staying at home to take care of Mother and protect Bethany from templars she already knew.

The choice had been an easy one; she disliked it still. A sense of dread filled her from the moment she stepped foot into camp; a persistent disquiet followed her wherever she went. Priests were almost as common as soldiers, and each of them had a group that prayed at their feet, or listened to their sermons, or knelt for blessings.

This one catches her off-guard; she had barely realized her feet had carried her to one of these groups until the Mother speaks, a kindness and gentleness in her eyes that sets some part of her at ease.

Victoria nods, and she kneels, and she receives the Maker’s blessing.

That night, waiting for the battle to begin, she prays. She asks for the Maker’s protection, for herself and for Carver. That night, they are nearly overwhelmed; later, she thinks He must have been listening to her prayers when she manages to find her brother amidst the chaos, and drag him away from the battle.

(They run, and they run, and they _run,_ but their blessings run out and she is left with only the blame of her brother’s death, and no time to mourn.)

_She is at the Maker’s side, now._

Bethany’s funeral is quiet, and private, and less burying her body and more a chance to sit and mourn the loss of another part of their family.

Aveline is the first one to speak to her, and all Victoria wants to do is punch her straight in the teeth. Instead, she turns, and walks straight back out.

(Mother does not call her back; Victoria carries the blame for this death, too.)

_Do you believe in the Maker, Hawke?_

Sebastian has asked all of her companions a variation of this question already; she is only surprised it has taken him this long to question her.

Her knife twirls in her hand as she lounges, quite unladylike, in her mansion. _Hers,_ by title, but it feels so much more like her mother’s; Victoria is not, has never been, an Amell. It’s too quiet, too empty, without her siblings. Her father. Carver would have hated it; Bethany would have made the best of it; Father would have been laughing and joking all the way.

“Hawke?”

Victoria laughs, the sound hollow even to her own ears. She tosses the knife in the air and watches as it turns over itself in the air once, twice, three times. In one swift movement she catches it, and stabs it into the table.  

“We’re not having this discussion.”

_He must exist._

Leather boots sound like bombs against stone floor, each step serving only to defile these hallowed halls of the Chantry. It is far from her first time inside; a river of blood has ran beneath her feet, she’s come armed with accusations and threats, she has laughed in the face of offered salvation.

But now she comes in that dark hour where those who do not have ghosts plaguing their dreams sleep, and those with no good intentions prowl. Victoria has always been more of the latter, at home in the shadows and the night. But the point of this is not to hide, or to leave destruction in her wake. In candlelight she steps forward, green eyes pinned on the great statue of Andraste rising above everything.

She gets as close as she can, head tilted back to look straight into those eyes so cold, so unfeeling, so full of judgment.

 _You are not worthy._ Victoria has always known this, has never much cared, and yet the words ring painfully in her ears. There is a burning rage within her that fills her lungs with smoke; she wants to scream but all she can do is choke on her grief and her guilt.

“When I said the Chantry doors are always open to you, this isn’t exactly what I meant.”

Victoria does not move an inch when Sebastian steps up beside her. She expected no less of him, and she knows – whatever he says – he expected no more of her.

“Mother used to tell me I should go to Chant more often,” is her response, voice small and brittle. She is trying, with everything she has, to keep her hands from shaking or reaching for the knife at her belt for some protection against this pain. Tears spill from green eyes, down her temples and into blonde hair, and she is powerless to stop them.

It feels all she’s done the past three days is cry.

“I never answered your question,” she continues when Sebastian does not speak (and oh, how she loves him for it), “whether or not I believe in the Maker. I did when I was young. I didn’t care, but I believed in Him. When my Father died, I thought maybe – maybe if I had cared, he would’ve been spared. I thought He saved Carver and me at Ostagar, but Carver never made it. And then He took Bethany...”

She can see, from the corner of her eye, how Sebastian dips his head.

“I understand, how easy it is to lose faith when everything has been taken from you. I couldn’t believe it either, when my family was murdered. We may never understand what His plan is.”

If anyone else had spoken those words to her, she would have stabbed them. But Sebastian had been there when she found her mother, twisted into a thing of nightmares. He had once bid her to seek out his vengeance for his own family. He is, she realizes, the only one who could possibly understand that burning pit of hatred that writhes within her stomach.

Victoria waits for the sermon, but it never comes. Finally, she lowers her gaze to meet his, a white-hot ferocity in her eyes.

“I know He exists, and he is watching every moment of this without a care. He is useless; he doesn’t care about us or our prayers, I can see that now. I’m going to find the bastard helping the man who killed my mother, and I am going to watch the light leave his eyes. And when I die – the Maker’s going to have a lot to answer for.”

She spits on the ground, turns, and walks back out.

_He must exist, so I can hold him accountable._


End file.
